Lord Mark
by owlcroft
Summary: A manor in Scotland, a ghostly presence, a kilt.


Two of the characters in this story belong to other people. The rest are my own. No profit has been made by me from any of them.

A/N: This story was first published in the S.T.A.R. for Brian's "Something's Going On in This 'Zine". Thank you all for your support!

This story is dedicated to Liz Tucker in gratitude for the plot bunny.

LORD MARK

by

Owlcroft

"Finally!" Judge Hardcastle opened his new issue of 'Rod and Reel' and smiled in satisfaction. "And there's an article on fly-tying! You just wait, kiddo. Next time we go fishing--" He broke off in mid-sentence to look across the patio table at the younger man engrossed in his own mail. "What've ya got there that's so important?"

Mark McCormick slowly raised his head, opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again and speechlessly held out the two-page letter. He shook his head in perplexity, then abruptly grinned and said, "Okay, I got it! This is payback for the 'Duke of Earl' business, right? Very funny, Judge."

"What? I'm talking about fishing and you're babbling about . . . what?" The judge grabbed the letter and scanned it quickly.

McCormick reached for his coffee mug, then leaned back in his chair. "You had me going there for a minute, I admit it, Judge." He took a sip of coffee, then added admiringly, "You know people _everywhere_, don'tcha. So you got some friend of yours in Scotland to phony up this 'you may be the heir' jazz just to yank my chain a little." Mark grinned again. "Very nicely done, Hardcase. But," he set down his mug and raised his chin grandly, "you can still sit in my presence."

"'Prince and the Pauper'", muttered the judge distractedly. "What _is _all this? 'Hereditaments' . . . 'assigns' . . . 'entailment' . . . McCormick, I gotta break it to ya, I didn't have anything to do with this. It looks like it's legit."

"Come on, Judge. Give it up. You can't con me." Mark waved a hand, drank more coffee.

Hardcastle set the letter down and gazed intently across the table. "McCormick," he said slowly, "listen to me. I had nothing to do with this," he tapped the paper in front of him, "and I think this guy's on the level. I think they really are looking for 'Mark Joseph McCormick', born in New Jersey in 1955, great-grandson of . . . who was it?" He ran a finger down the first page. "Yeah, Andrew Patrick McCormick. Now, you got a great-grandfather with that name?"

Mark stared at him in patent suspicion for a moment, then slow incredulity dawned on his face. "Are you serious?" He grabbed for the letter. "You really didn't do this?"

"I really didn't do that. Now, did you or did you not have a great-grandfather--"

"How would _I _know? I barely know the names of my mother's parents." McCormick scanned the first page again, then turned to the second. "I wouldn't even know how to find out. Judge," he looked at Hardcastle seriously, "_could_ this be for real?"

"Maybe." The judge rubbed his chin and considered. "But I thought your family was Irish, not Scottish."

"Yeah, but this says that Andrew Patrick's family went to Ireland from Scotland in 1854 and then part of the family came here, to America in . . . 1903." McCormick squinted into the distance and said slowly, "It _could _be possible."

Hardcastle stood suddenly and said, "I'll go make a couple of phone calls, find out about--" he picked up the letter and accompanying envelope, "Kinnick and Skelton, solicitors--"

"I _said _you know people everywhere," Mark muttered.

"And we'll go from there," continued the judge. "I gotta tell ya, though, kid. Don't get your hopes up here. There must be hundreds of Andrew Patricks and Mark Josephs, just in this country alone."

"Yeah, but born in 1955 in New Jersey?" McCormick's eyes lit up. "Hey, suppose this really _is_ me? I mean, that I'm _it_. Whatever." He put a hand to his forehead. "Suppose I really _am _the Earl of Blackthorne?"

ooooo

Mark poked his head into the den and asked hopefully, "Anything yet?"

"It's only been an hour and a half," groused the judge. "Hey, come in here for a minute."

"'Hey, come in here for a minute, _your Grace_'," said McCormick as he plopped into the chair at the end of the desk.

Hardcastle shook his head disparagingly. "Nope, Grace is a duke."

"Majesty?" Mark asked hopefully.

"King," replied the judge. "Or an emperor," he added thoughtfully. "And before you ask, Highness is a prince."

Mark studied for a moment. "Your Worship?"

"Cut it out. An earl is . . . lemme think." Hardcastle wrinkled his forehead and stared into space. "I _think _it's a lord," he said slowly. "I think you'd be Lord Mark McCormick."

McCormick immediately sat up straight and preened a bit. "You, my good man," he stated impressively, "may address me casually as 'Lord'. Only in company will I require the full title."

Hardcastle snorted in amusement. "I've got some real choice names for you, all right. Now listen up." He handed over a sheet torn from a legal pad. "I need for you to answer all the questions on here that you can. You don't happen to have any photographs of your relatives, do ya?"

"Hmm. I got one of my mother with her parents." Mark frowned at the list of questions. "Hey," he looked up excitedly, "I think it has their names on the back, too!"

"Well, that would be a start." The judge leaned back in his chair and regarded the younger man with a touch of concern. "Look, there's an eight-hour time difference between here and Edinburgh, so I haven't talked to these folks direct yet. But they're legitimate and it looks like the search they've got going is for real, too. But," he held up an admonishing finger, "don't go getting carried away about this, okay? I mean, the chances of the guy they're looking for being you has gotta be at least a thousand to one."

Mark looked at him from under his eyebrows. "But it's gotta be _somebody_, right? Hey, I'll take a thousand to one chance."

"Beats a poke in the eye with a sharp stick," agreed Hardcastle. "Just don't start counting on it, 'cause it's _not _gonna happen. Now, you go find that picture and write down all the answers you have for the questions and bring 'em back to me." He sighed and pushed himself upright again. "Even negative information is important to lawyers looking for a long-lost heir, so if we can prove you're _not _the right McCormick that's a help to 'em."

"Spoilsport," Mark ran up the stairs to the hallway. "Don't forget to get your laundry together," he tossed back over his shoulder.

ooooo

"Why is it _I'm_ always finished packing ahead of time and standing in the hall waiting for you?"

The judge grimaced at him. "Because you just throw stuff in a duffel bag and I," he placed a hand on his chest in a grand manner, "like to choose my wardrobe carefully."

Mark rolled his eyes and leaned against the bedroom doorframe. "Yeah, yeah. Well, get a move on, willya?"

"All I'm saying is," continued the judge, "if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is."

"Hey!" objected McCormick. "You're not taking that!"

Hardcastle paused in his packing to see what the younger man was objecting to. "Why not?"

"Because," explained McCormick patiently, holding the shirt at arm's length, "we're going to Scotland, not Polynesia. Judge, you can't wear purple parrots in Scotland."

"Says _who_?" asked the judge testily. "Besides, that's one of my favorite fishing shirts. Gimme that!"

"Fishing? Nope, get away." Mark fended him off. "Finish your packing while I dispose of this."

Hardcastle glared at him and defiantly shoved an orange sweatshirt into the already over-full suitcase. "Yeah, _fishing_. They got trout and salmon and perch. You ever had perch? Mighty good eating."

"We're not going there to eat fish." Mark stashed the parrot shirt in the hamper, then sat on the hamper. "We're going to be interviewed and find out how real this all is." He held up a hand, palm out. "And no, I'm not taking it too seriously. I know I'm probably not the real heir, but look. We're getting a free trip to Scotland out of it, right?"

"Help me close this, willya?" The judge grunted with the effort of holding the edges of the suitcase together.

"Me? Are you kidding? That's menial labor." Mark struck a pose. "I have to consider my position, you know."

"Your position," Hardcastle pointed at him, "is gonna be flat on your back, changing the oil in the truck as soon as we get back."

"Hey, come on. Maybe I can grant you some kinda title, too." Mark snickered. "Grand Exalted Curmudgeon."

"Nah," said Hardcastle absently. "I think that's the Masons. What have I forgotten to pack?"

McCormick shook his head. "Not a thing. We'll only be gone a week. Let's go, Judge. The flight leaves in two hours."

"Yeah, yeah. Here, you take this and I'll grab the overnight bag." Hardcastle handed the suitcase to McCormick. As soon as Mark lugged it through the door, the judge darted to the hamper, grabbed the parrot shirt out and stuffed it into his overnight case. Then, smiling, he sauntered out.

ooooo

"Judge, you asleep?"

"Well, not any _more_."

"I was just thinking--"

"Better quit now before you hurt yourself."

"Ho, ho. Ya know, I'm supposed to be pretty good at figuring the odds."

"Do we hafta talk about this _now_?"

"Well, yeah. I'm not asleep and I'm trying to--"

"Some of us _are_ asleep, or _were_, McCormick. Just knock it off, okay?"

"But Judge, I need to ask ya something. Something important."

"Yeah, what?" Hardcastle finally managed to come up to about the half-wakeful point and tried to decide how he'd handle the legitimacy question. It was bound to be asked at some point, and it looked like that point was now.

"You said the guy in Edinburgh told you they'd narrowed it down to about a half-dozen of us, right?"

"I'm not gonna repeat the whole thing for you, McCormick," he said with some relief. "So just try to relax until we land, okay? Why don'tcha try to get some sleep."

"That's not for another two hours. Look, I'm figuring if there's six of us--"

"I _said_, why don'tcha try to get some _sleep_."

"Okay, okay. But listen, if--"

"_Grrr!"_

"You know, Hardcase, you look tired. You oughtta try to grab a nap."

ooooo

The train to Edinburgh was very nearly on time, and a porter was right on hand to take their bags.

"We're supposed to meet one of the lawyers here," muttered Hardcastle. "Look around for somebody that looks like a lawyer, okay?"

"Mr. McCormick?" came a voice from the side.

At Mark's nod, the voice continued. "I must introduce myself. I am James Randolph, clerk at the firm of Skelton and Kinnick."

McCormick extended a hand in greeting. "Hiya. I'm Mark McCormick . . . but I guess you knew that." At the judge's sigh, Mark turned and added, "and this is my legal representative, Milton Hardcastle."

The judge held out a hand, nodded and smiled a greeting.

"Mr. Skelton is currently recuperating from an illness, gentlemen, and Mr. Kinnick has retired and is living abroad. But I assure you I am in their confidence and will be able to give you all the information you require." The elderly clerk, grey in hair, suit and manner, inclined his head confidingly. "And I very much hope that you will, in turn, vouchsafe to our office the necessary familial history that will enable us to reach a accurate, uncontested determination. I have a car outside and, if you've no objections, we can proceed directly to the estate." Randolph smiled hopefully and gestured toward the station exit.

"Yeah, look, Mr. Randolph," Hardcastle waved the porter to follow, "Mr. McCormick's written out all the names and dates on this sheet." He handed over a page from a legal tablet. "But I'd appreciate a little more information right off the bat, a little more detail if that's possible. I mean, this is all kind of out of the blue and I'm not sure yet why we're even here at this point."

Randolph opened the front left-hand door of a black estate wagon and motioned to the porter to load the suitcases in the back.

"You go ahead, Judge. I'll sit in the back." McCormick looked through the silver coins he'd pulled from a pocket, found a pound coin and slipped it to the porter.

"Certainly. I'll be happy to provide any information at my command." Randolph waited until Mark had climbed in and fastened his seat belt. "As to the matter of your visiting the estate, it is at the express wish of the late Earl. He stated in his will an unwavering belief that 'blood will tell'. It was his strongly-held opinion that the lineaments of the face will invariably betray ancestry."

Hardcastle looked at the clerk slightly askance, then cast a glance over the back seat. Mark raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"The veracity of his belief is, to my understanding, undeterminable. The visit to the estate being so stipulated, however, it is my privilege to transport you thither." Randolph turned the key and the engine caught. "This is a matter of enormous importance to our entire community. The heir to the Blackthorne estate is a figure with great responsibility and the candidates have now been whittled down to only four, of which you are, of course, one."

"Four?" McCormick leaned forward to push the judge's shoulder excitedly. "What are the odds, now, huh?"

Hardcastle shrugged and kept a calm expression. "What happened with the other two?"

"One was eliminated by date of birth; the original certificate had been a trifle illegible and the copy we obtained showed more clearly that he was _not _born in 1955. The other," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "was found to have . . . ah, made some alterations to his records, shall we say?"

"Forged 'em, huh?" The judge waved a hand deprecatingly. "We didn't bring the originals, of course, but I think you'll find all our records are accurate and complete."

Mark was admiring the green countryside; it hadn't taken long for the urban area around Edinburgh to fade into open land only sparsely inhabited. Hills and small streams were sprinkled across the landscape and sheep drifted everywhere like tiny clouds.

"So am I the first one here? To see the place, I mean?"

"You are indeed. We have planned a week-long stay for each of the four remaining candidates." Randolph threw a look across the back seat at McCormick. "That will give you time to acquaint yourself with the estate and the servants and allow us to examine and research your records as thoroughly as possible."

"Servants?" said Mark disbelievingly.

ooooo

Blackthorne Manor stood in the afternoon sun, as long as a football field, red brick and white trim, three stories with a portico, manicured lawn, ancient oaks, a group of waiting servants.

Randolph pulled the car up in front of the gently-sloping steps, turned off the engine and turned to face Mark. "Blackthorne Manor."

Hardcastle took another look at the servants and announced, "I'll get the suitcases."

McCormick steeled himself and climbed out of the car. He took a deep breath and trod up the five steps determinedly.

"Good afternoon, sir. I am Holden, the butler." The black-clad, stiffly-postured man on the top step bowed slightly.

"Um, nice to meet you, Mr. Holden." Mark started to hold out a hand, but Holden very slightly shook his head and looked past him to the judge, piling baggage onto the bottom step.

"Ah, right. That's Judge Hardcastle. Judge, this is Mr. Holden, the butler." McCormick smiled nervously. "And that's Mr. Randolph, from the law firm. But you probably know that."

"Indeed, sir," Holden murmured gently. "May I present the staff, sir?"

"Oh, you bet." Mark turned toward the house and the group of five people waiting with interest to meet him.

"Mrs. Hoskins, the housekeeper."

Mrs. Hoskins, a regal woman in a black dress, aloofly inclined her head and looked at Mark with distrust.

"Tremaine, the cook."

Tremaine was a thin woman with white hair, a nod, and a friendly, welcoming smile.

"The parlor maids, Atkins and Hutchison, and the kitchen maid, Martin." Each of the young women gave a little bob and a quick, tentative smile.

Holden frowned ever so slightly and added, "The gardener/chauffeur, Allen, was apparently unable to join us. My apologies, gentlemen."

Randolph had joined McCormick and the judge on the top step. "A sadly-reduced staff, I'm afraid," he said with a nod to the butler. "But the new earl will set that to rights."

"As you say, sir," Holden bowed again. "Please enter, gentlemen. Atkins will show you to your rooms and your luggage will be taken there directly."

McCormick nodded, tugged gently at his collar and stepped through the open front door, with the judge right behind.

"Wow." Mark stood, staring at the entrance hall. There was an ornate grandfather clock next to the marble fireplace and a large oil painting of brocade-clad gentlemen on horse-back. A mahogany occasional table supported a Chinese vase of unsurpassed ugliness and two huge leather-seated chairs stood to either side of a life-sized statue of Athena with her helmet and owl. To the right was the stairway leading to the next floor; at its foot stood Atkins, smiling hopefully.

"This way, sirs?" she asked cajolingly.

Hardcastle harrumphed matter-of-factly. "Yeah, Miss . . . Atkins, was it? Lead on."

"Judge," whispered McCormick, "ask her for a map."

ooooo

"Mr. Hardcastle, are there any repairs or preparations needed _vis a vis_ your wardrobe?" Holden had a cordial, not to say friendly, expression on his thin face. "Perhaps if you find yourself without a formal jacket, we can provide one of approximately your size for the dinner tonight." The judge looked up from his purple parrot shirt and replied, "Yeah, hey, can you spare me a minute here?"

Holden, appearing entranced by the parrot shirt, entered the room and stared at the shirt and then the judge bemusedly.

"Ya see, we were told by that nice Miss Atkins that there was a special welcome dinner being put on and we should dress as formal as we could." Hardcastle wrinkled his nose and inspected the contents of his suitcase. "Well, we brought sport coats but --"

"It's only necessary for the heir-designate to dress in the _traditional_ formal attire. His guests are expected to dress formally, to be sure, but in regulation formal clothing." He looked the judge up and down and gave it as his opinion that the storerooms would be able to accommodate in that regard. "I shall have Hutchison bring you a dinner jacket, sir. Dinner will be served in forty-five minutes; a gong will sound at the fifteen-minute point and you are expected to assemble in the small drawing room --" Holden looked at the judge's expression and took pity on him. "Go downstairs, turn left and look for a room with apple-green walls. Go in there and wait; there'll be sherry and madeira in decanters on the table. Please serve yourselves. Is there anything else with which I can assist you, Mr. Hardcastle?"

The Judge shook his head and proceeded to dust off his black sport coat. "Ya sure this wouldn't do?" When Holden shook his head dolefully, Hardcastle sighed and told him, "You better check on McCormick. The kid's idea of formal is tying a black sock around his neck. I'll be okay." He waved Holden out, then remembered to shout "Thanks!"

At the tap on the door opposite Judge Hardcastle's room, McCormick startled, made a strange noise in his throat and tried to find a place to hide. Realizing none of these efforts were productive, he decided to stall for time and called out, "Who is it?"

"I beg your pardon, milord; it's Holden."

At that, Mark opened the bedroom door slightly to say, "You just called me 'milord'."

Holden bit his lip and shook his head in distress. "My apologies, sir. It's become such a habit over the last forty years, that I seem unable to refrain from using the title." He let a small sigh escape, stood a little straighter and asked, "Do you require any assistance, Mr. McCormick? It occurred to me that you might be unfamiliar with the attire and have a bit of trouble with the fastenings."

"You really expect me to wear this,don't you? Downstairs, to eat dinner, which will probably be some horrible thing with animal guts involved, am I right?" McCormick was pacing around the room, peeking anxiously at the garments laid out on the bed. "Okay, fine! I can do this! Just tell me what and how and I'll show 'em. A man's got a certain inbred dignity that wearing a skirt can't take away." He lifted the ruffled shirt off the bed, held it at arm's length, then asked, "But where the hell does the little knife go? Do I use it to stab people who make smart remarks about my clothes?"

Holden patiently and unemotionally walked him through the process of getting dressed, instructing him in the history of the different items and in their proper use. Mark took one look at the finished product in the mirror and decided he'd better hustle down to the drawing room to get there first and stand behind a tall chair.

No sooner had he determined which was the tallest chair in the room, and managed to drape an attractive table runner over its back to obscure his outfit even more, than he heard Hardcastle's footsteps coming down the stairs and toward the parlor.

The judge pushed the door open and was surprised to see McCormick already downstairs and ready for the mysterious "formal dinner". "Hey, that's a pretty classy jacket you got on there. We didn't bring that with us."

"Well, no, it's a loan for tonight, Judge. It's called a Prince Charlie jacket and the shirt and tie are the kind that are always worn with it."

"Nice," said the judge. "Plain black, but with the buttons and the nice tailoring, it looks formal somehow. And how about this?" He held his arms out to the side. "I got a tuxedo, see? And hey! My shirt's got ruffles, too, even on the cuffs! Pretty spiffy, huh?"

Mark took a deep breath and made a small speech. "Judge, you know how you're always preaching about respecting other cultures and learning from other heritages? Well, this is gonna be a big opportunity for you to be a really good example of that. Okay? Now hang on, don't say anything right away." Mark took another deep breath and stepped out from behind the chair.

Hardcastle was frozen. Not a move,except the eyes up and down and back up, not a word said.

McCormick tried to open up a dialogue with "It's a kilt, Hardcastle. The tartan is the family pattern of the MacLaines and the MacCormaigs are a sept under the MacLaines. See? And look, a sgian dubh in my sock."

"You got a what in your sock?"

"Skee-en du. It used to be for cutting up meat, but now it's decorative. Unless a cranky old judge decides to smart off too much. How 'bout it, Judge? Got anything you wanna say?" Mark looked at him defiantly.

"Yeah, I do. What are you wearing under there?"

McCormick nearly smiled, but held it down just enough to be able to answer proudly, "You'll never know."

"Yeah, well, I'll find out first time you go out in a high wind, so we'll let that one go. But what do you have in that . . . that dead rabbit you're wearing? Doesn't look all that hygienic."

"_That_ is a sporran," said McCormick defiantly. "And it's a special one, made out of ermine, and only used by the head of the family on certain ritual occasions. Like tonight. I'll tell ya what, though," Mark lowered his voice confidentially. "It makes going to the Wee Laddie's room really weird."

Holden entered the parlor silently and seemed a little disappointed that the decanters had been left untouched. "Dinner is ready, gentlemen. May I show you the way?"

"Nope," said the judge hastily. "Hang on there just one minute, okay?" Hardcastle was off through the door and running up the stairs before he'd finished talking. In less than a minute, he was pounding back down the stairs muttering to himself. "There," he pronounced, holding up his camera, "say 'cheese', McCormick."

Mark scowled direly and pushed his left leg forward to display the sgian dubh to advantage.

"Yeah, yeah, you got the legs for it, but I wanna get the whole picture; can't you put a hand on a hip and turn kinda sideways so we get the ruffles and tie and the medals on the jacket. Come on, work with me here, kiddo."

"Mr. Holden?" McCormick looked him straight in the eye. "I believe the food will spoil if we don't eat right now, is that true?"

"As true as true, milo--" Holden coughed into his fist and tried again. "Absolutely true, Mr. McCormick. And Cook's that quick with her temper I hate to consider how she'll feel if you come late to table on your first night."

"So, no time for pictures now, Judge. Maybe after dinner, okay? Mr. Holden, would you lead us to the dining room, please?"

Hardcastle sneaked up close behind Mark, who had a hand protecting his hem in the back from any pranks that might occur. "Smooth move, McCormick, but you never know when the Phantom Photographer will strike."

The dining room was cavernous, dark and chilly. There were ornate sideboards to either side of the table, each filled with gleaming crystal and gilt-edged porcelain. The table was of the darkest mahogany and could easily accommodate thirty people. Fortunately, their chairs were side by side at the top corner.

McCormick took the chair at the end of the table and watched as Holden produced a steaming tureen.

"Cockaleekie, sir," he offered.

It was delicious and accompanied by bread rolls called bannocks, which were obviously home-made. The baked pike which followed was interesting, a bit strongly-flavored, but perfectly enjoyable.

Next, came the centerpiece of the meal. Holden ceremoniously lowered a platter to the table in front of Mark and stood back, watching intently.

"Don't tell me," Mark said in a pathetic tone, "haggis."

"With tatties and neeps, sir." Holden noticed the gleam in the judge's eyes and decided to expand. "That means potatoes and turnips. May I serve you, sir?"

Mark bit his lip, nodded manfully and turned away to study the painting of a fox hunt over the left-hand sideboard.

After Holden had finished serving, he stepped back and glanced casually around the room. To his annoyance, the rest of the staff had gathered in the butler's pantry and were peeking around the edge of the door to see McCormick's reaction to the main dish. Scandalized, Holden waved a hand frantically behind his back, to no avail. The group watched intently as Mark courageously took a minute amount of the meat and oat mixture onto his fork and placed it gingerly in his mouth.

"Not bad," said Hardcastle, taking his third forkfull. "Not sure I'd want to eat the outside, but this filling's pretty good. I like the way the oats kinda thicken it up . . . like meatloaf in a way. You know, with the breadcrumbs."

McCormick swallowed without chewing and his eyes opened in surprise. "Huh." He looked down at his plate and took another tiny bit of the mixture. "That wasn't so bad, really." He tried chewing the second bite and looked at the judge. "It _is _kinda like meatloaf."

"And the potatoes and turnips are good. Excuse me," called the judge to Holden, who'd been trying to maneuver himself in front of the crowd at the door. "Is there whisky in here?"

"Indeed, sir." Holden threw one last irritated look at the staff and approached the table. "Cook traditionally flavors them with our own whisky. It will also be served with the dessert course, which I understand to be strawberries tonight."

"You make whisky here?" Mark had made definite inroads on the tatties and neeps and had eaten more than half of his serving of haggis. "Right here on the estate?"

"We do, sir. Allen, the gardener, has charge of that and would, I am sure, be pleased to demonstrate tomorrow. Shall I have him wait upon you, sir, after breakfast?"

McCormick looked slightly uncomfortable and pursed his lips. "Couldn't I just go find him? In the garden? Or wherever?"

"Yeah, we should take a tour of the whole place." Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach gently. "Mighty fine meal, Mr. Holden. You tell Mrs. Tremaine I've never had better-cooked innards and I've eaten a lot of chitterlings in my day."

Mark shot him a dirty look, which was ignored as the judge continued.

"There's supposed to be a stream around here, right? Runs right across the grounds?"

Holden got McCormick's nod to begin removing platters. "Craggon Water is an offshoot of the River Teviot and is commonly held to be some of the finest trout fishing in this area, sir. It runs directly across the estate approximately one quarter of a mile to the south of the stables." He placed a stack of dishes and silver on the sideboard and motioned to the door and mouthed 'dessert'. "There is a complete assortment of tackle and gear in the game room. Unfortunately, we no longer have a gamekeeper, however--" Holden placed an unlabelled bottle and two small rounded glasses on the table, "Allen or I would be pleased to assist you in any way."

The judge rubbed his palms together and grinned. "That's the ticket. Fresh-caught trout, there's nothing like it." He took a just-poured glass and sniffed it delicately.

"Yeah, that's an idea." A smile spread slowly across McCormick's face. "If we catch enough trout, we can return the favor. You know," he turned to Hardcastle inquiringly, "cook our own 'traditional dinner' for everybody here." He picked up his glass and held it up to the light. "Grilled trout with lemon butter, cooked _a la_ Hardcastle. 'Course, it's even more special when it's cooked on a stick." He grinned insinuatingly at the judge. "Once you've had _that_, you never forget it."

Hardcastle harrumphed and took a sip of whisky just as the dessert tray was handed to Holden through the pantry door. "Oh, that's good stuff." He took another small taste. "We _definitely_ have to meet Mr. Allen tomorrow."

"Ah, well," Holden looked uncertain. "I'm sure it's very . . . accomodating of you to want to . . . ah, prepare a meal for us, but really, sir . . ." He served strawberries and clotted cream automatically. "It would hardly be appropriate . . ."

The judge snorted. "Appropriate's never been one of my big concerns." He sampled the strawberries and smiled. "Tell ya what. We'll get all the legal stuff, going over the books and papers and all, outta the way tomorrow and then go fishing. I bet ya, Holden, I catch three to your two."

"Oh, Mr. Hardcastle." Holden shook his head politely but somewhat despairingly. "It's not my place . . . I'm sure I'm very much obliged, but it's completely impossible . . . not even to be thought of--"

"Well, we're gonna need somebody to show us the best spots and advise us on bait, and you look to me like a guy who's caught a few in his time." The judge savored another sip from his glass. "Come on, us old-timers'll show the kid how important experience and judgement are when it comes to trout." He winked and Holden found himself, inexplicably, winking back.

ooooo

After a surprisingly sound sleep in an gold-brocade canopied bed, McCormick found the kitchen the next morning by following the aroma of coffee.

"'Morning," he said, pushing through the swinging door.

"Oh, good morning, sir," said a flustered Mrs. Tremaine. She turned from the judge, who was pouring himself a mug of coffee from the pot on the big black range, and held a hand toward Mark. "Please, sir, and you, Mr. Hardcastle, let me serve your breakfast in the dining room. Or the morning parlor. Indeed, indeed, you shouldn't be in here." She twisted the corner of her apron and looked for help at the kitchen maid, who was discreetly disappearing into the scullery.

"I already told her we'd be fine right here, McCormick. Here." The judge proffered the mug of coffee and reached for another for himself.

Mark took the coffee and smiled at the agitated cook. "Mrs. Tremaine, it's really nice of you to want to do all that extra work, but I know I'd feel more comfortable . . . more _at home _. . . right here in the kitchen."

Hardcastle slurped at his hot coffee and nodded. "Same here."

"Unless we'd be in your way? We usually eat in the kitchen." Mark looked around the large stone-walled room, noticing the box of corn flakes and the saucepan of steaming oatmeal on the stove. "Have you had yours already? We can just have some cereal if that's what you've got ready."

"Oh, milord," moaned the cook, then abruptly corrected herself. "I mean, _sir_, it's not _proper_, indeed it's not. If you could just wait in the parlor, I could bring your breakfast to you as is fitting."

The judge set down his cup, gently took the elderly lady's arm and led her to the large wooden table at the side of the kitchen. "Now we've gone and upset you and we sure didn't mean to. Why don't you sit here and have a nice cup of coffee and we'll get breakfast. Eggs, bacon, some of that nice oatmeal? How's that?" He beamed at her hopefully and she surrendered to a superior force.

Holden came in just a few minutes later to find Mrs. Tremaine and the maid, Martin, chatting comfortably with Hardcastle, while Mark flipped bacon and kept an eye on the eggs.

"What . . . you cannot . . . _Mrs. Tremaine_," he said, astonishment written on his face.

"Come on in and sit yourself down." The judge patted the chair next to his. "I'll get you some coffee."

The cook shook her head wryly. "You might as well give in gracefully, Fergus. They'll not be denied."

McCormick put a filled cup and a plate of toast in front of the shocked butler. "You can have your turn at lunch, if it makes you feel better. Mrs. Tremaine, where do you keep the butter?"

"Oh, Mr. McCormick." Holden transferred his astonized gaze from the plate to Mark and held up a hand politely. "Mr. Randolph just called and would like to come by this morning around ten to confer with you concerning the estate accounts. I'm to call him back if that's not convenient for you."

"Judge?" McCormick stirred the eggs with a questioning look at Hardcastle. "That work for you?"

"Fine with me. Now, who wants bacon?"

ooooo

Both Hardcastle and McCormick found the office that had previously been occupied by the estate manager. "A hard man, but I suppose he had to be," was Mrs. Tremaine's testimony. Mrs. Hoskins, the stiffly-dignified housekeeper showed them to the office and condescended to point out that the account books were currently locked in the manager's safe. She left the room, the judge lifting his eyebrows as he watched her depart. Mark smiled at him wryly and started browsing through the various piles of paper left lying on the desk. Mullioned windows facing the east lawn let in a great deal of sunlight. On top of one of the stacks was stationery embossed with the name Andrew J. Featherstonehaugh. "Feather-stone-hauff?" guessed McCormick.

"Lemme see that." Hardcastle held out a hand and perused the name carefuly. "Feather-stone-hawg? _That_ can't be right."

"No, gentlemen," said Randolph's voice from the door, "it's similar to that name spelled as though it would be pronounced Chol-mondes-ley, but is, in fact, said as "Chumley". Our previous estate agent was a man named . . ." he paused and made sure they were attending, "Fanshaw."

"Oh," the judge was surprised but not taken aback. "Like Brighthelmstone became Brighton."

"Just so," nodded Randolph as he spread the contents of his briefcase over the surface of the desk. "Please be seated and be comfortable. I have news to impart, good news from your particular point of view."

Mark looked quickly at the judge and cocked his head in a question. Hardcastle shrugged back at him and settled in to wait.

"It seems," Mr. Randolph had selected a specific sheet of paper ands appeared to be scanning it, "that our Australian candidate has been eliminated due to his attempts to bribe certain hospital officials in the town of his birth. Dear, dear. Still, that makes my job somewhat easier. Mr. McCormick you are one of three finalists and therefore are to be given an overview of the acreage, the plantations of firs, the pasturage (at use and in fallow), expenses relating to the household and to the estate separately, including but not limited to staff and utensils, investments, charitable contributions of long standing, current wages and perquisites, etc. I estimate it will take us up to, if not through, lunch time. Will this be a good time for you?"

Mark started to shrug, then waved his hands in the air instead. "A earl's gotta do what an earl's gotta do, right, Hardcase? Listen, you go ahead with old Fergus down to the stream. Mrs. Tremaine's packed a 'nice luncheon hamper' for you and that'll give you a chance to get so far ahead that I won't be able to catch up in just an hour or two."

"Naw, hey, kid. That's not fair. I said I'd share the load and this looks like it's gonna be pretty heavy-duty."

"Mr. Hardcastle, I understand and approve your desire to familiarize yourself with the account books. Be assured they will be completely at your disposal at any subsequent time. I would encourage you to enjoy a fishing expedition and perhaps devote a quiet afternoon to business. This morning's efforts will be merely an overview. A more detailed and specific explication will follow the final determination of the titleholder."

"Yeah, come on, Judge. If we're gonna cook what you catch, you better get started right away. Oh, hey! They don't use charcoal for cooking _or_ distilling, so one of the maids told me the gardener's gonna build us a fire pit and line it with peat. Should work, right?"

"Suppose so, if it doesn't get too hot to manage. Ah, it'll all work out . Listen--" he pointed at McCormick, already seated at the erstwhile manager's desk, "join up with us at the stream when you're done here. You, too, Mr. Randolph, you're more than welcome and you're invited for our fish fry later, too. If we don't see you two, we'll figure you're still pushing pencils and punching adding machines. Okay?"

"Okay. But if we're not there by lunchtime, come rescue us." Mark gave him a look that was joking, but not entirely so. "Now get going, Fergus is waiting for ya." He made a shooing motion, then turned to the law clerk and said, "Where do we start?"

"Shall we begin with what is entailed and what is not?"

ooooo

"Listen, I can't call ya Mr. Holden out here when we're fishing. Now, I want you to call me Milt," he put a hand on his chest. "And I'd be proud if I could call you Fergus." The judge held his hand up in front of him and added, "except for when you've got duties in the house and you need to be more formal. We understand that." He lowered his chin and watched the other man attach a Brown Hackle to his hook. "Whaddaya doin' with that?"

Fergus Holden looked up at the man standing in front of him and smiled. "I'm honored, Milt. Now, let me show you the difference between a Brown Hackle and a Green Hackle."

The judge leaned over the tackle box which had been placed on the ground alongside the stream. "You mean there's more than one being brown and the other green, huh?"

"Oh, yes. First, determine which fish you're going after, then narrow down the types of bait you have, then choose the proven favorite of the fish. Not so difficult, is it?"

Hardcastle cocked his head quizzically. "Not if you're familiar with the fish in your waters, and the tackle in your boxes and the fish's taste buds. What're you going after with that Hackle?"

Holden stood up and swished his fishing rod through the air several times to check its flexibility. "Well, I'm going to have a try at the Old Gentlemen." He caught a questioning look from the judge. "The old brown trout that lives under the dead tree that dams the water a bit further up. I'll take you to say hello to him. He must weigh nearly twenty pounds by now."

"And what line you gonna use?" asked the judge in a casual tone of voice.

"Oho, it's a competition, is it? You rascal, to winkle out my secrets and use them against me." Holden grinned at him suddenly, shouted "You're on!" and dashed for the stream, Hardcastle not far behind.

ooooo

Meanwhile, words like ordynat, jointure, testamentary settlement, rang in Mark's mind. Mr. Randolph had explained everything at length, many papers had been gone over in detail, the top of the desk was nearly cleared.

"Now, I'm sure you're ready for a wee rest." Randolph shuffled together the papers on the desk and looked at Mark inquiringly. "I know Mrs. Hoskins is available to show you the house. You'll need to know which rooms are open for Public Days and the portrait gallery is always of interest."

"Oh, right. The portrait gallery," McCormick mumbled. "Yeah, I'm sure that'll be, um . . . Mr. Randolph, can I ask you something?"

Randolph clicked his tongue. "And is not that precisely why I am here, sir?"

"Why is everybody acting so sure that I'm the one?" Mark scratched his head pensively. "I mean, it's like you're all assuming it's me and there are still two other guys in the running." He looked at the clerk with a touch of suspicion in his gaze. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Hmmm," said Randolph, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Allow me to say just this. There are certain indications that, in the judgment of those who may be assumed to not only have a vested interest, but also a sound and sufficient understanding of the situation, there are what one might deem _portents_ which would weigh heavily with the aforementioned persons, _and_" he lifted a finger judicially, "these same portents are jointly shared and freighted with that value and importance which is not merely prejudicial to said outcome, but, I might go so far as to say, _critical_." He lowered the finger and leaned over the desk. "However, that is not to say that the outcome is decided. By no means." His lips twitched into a tiny smile. "I hope that was as helpful as it was my intention to be."

"Yeah, I'm sure it was." Mark tried hard not to smile in return, but failed. "Okay," he sighed, "where's Mrs. Hoskins? I can't go much longer without seeing a portrait gallery."

ooooo

The judge made a perfect cast and settled in to watch the ripples and eddies of the stream wash the line from side to side.

Holden teased his line a bit, reeled it in slightly, then released it again. "Will you think me forward, Milt," he glanced at the judge momentarily, "if I should ask you something with regards to the young Earl? I mean, ah, Mr. McCormick?"

"Nah, shoot." Hardcastle looked at him inquisitively, then added, "That means, go ahead."

"It seems to me," said Holden slowly, "that you are not merely Mr. McCormick's legal advisor." He looked at the judge line with deliberation. "You might pull that a trifle further into the center. It's deeper there." He took one hand away from his own fishing rod to scratch idly at his cheek. "What I mean is, there seems to be a friendship between you that is not the relationship of people who've met by way of business."

Hardcastle tugged at his line, which had become fouled on a floating tree branch. "Well, yeah. We did kinda meet, ah . . . because my line of work and his coincided, so to speak." He got his line free and prepared for another cast. "But right now, we're working together in, um, the area of law enforcement, I guess you'd say. It's nothing connected to any formal organization, but it's not just a hobby, either." He plopped his hook right where he'd wanted it, and checked to make sure where Holden's line was. "I guess you could call us free-lancers."

"I see. You do the work because it needs doing, for the benefit of society, not for payment." Holden tugged interrogatively at his line. "There'd be no necessity for paid employment, would there?"

"Right. We do it because it's worthwhile and --"

"Aha! Got one!" shouted Holden.

ooooo

After the tour of the State Rooms ("Current royalty have never honored us with a visit; however, we did have the pleasure of hosting the first Duke of Wellington"), the formal drawing room, and the Countess' Boudoir and Powder Closet, Mrs. Hoskins threw open double doors to a long, hardwood-floored gallery, lined with oil paintings and dotted at intervals with classical statuary.

McCormick smothered a sigh and looked at her hopefully. "You must be a busy woman, Mrs. Hoskins. Tell ya what. I'll just have a look around by myself and let you get back to . . . whatever I'm interrupting."

"There is hardly," she replied with a sniff, "the staff to which I am accustomed, sir. And with no earl in residence, I am far from being overworked." She looked toward the window at the end of the long room. "I remember when we had a staff of twenty-three, if one were to include the gamekeeper and the two under-gardeners."

"Really? How about that?" said Mark politely and followed her into the gallery. "So, who was this guy?" He pointed at a bewigged gentleman dressed in silver satin and leaning against a winged arm chair.

"That is the second Earl, John MacCormaig. He died in 1793 and his son, Edward," she gestured to the next painting, "inherited. He married Lady Elizabeth Carlington in 1803. This is her portrait, by Lawrence."

Mark looked at a lady dressed in the classical Greek style, holding something that looked like a cross between a Pekingese and a guinea pig. "Very nice," he said dryly.

Mrs. Hoskins shot him a look, but he had on an expression of curiosity as he paced to the next picture.

"She's pretty." He cocked his head and inspected the slightly-built blond-ringleted figure with a smile. "Is that a bustle? How did women put up with those?"

"This lady," replied Mrs. Hoskins in a slightly-mournful tone, "was the wife of the fourth Earl, Cassandra. She never bore a living child and the Earl had her put away and took another wife." She moved down the hallway to the next portrait and waited for McCormick to catch up.

"Wait a minute," he waved a hand at her to come back to Cassandra, Lady Blackthorne. "What do you mean, he had her put away? You don't mean _killed,_ do you?" McCormick smiled a little feebly and hoped to see her head shake no. It did.

"Indeed no, sir. She was declared mentally unfit and confined in an institution. She died there within two years."

Mark was aghast. "Hold it! Some guy, maybe related to me, decides he wants to try another wife, so he puts the first one in a loony bin and leaves her there to die?"

Mrs. Hoskins nodded grimly.

McCormick looked down at the floor, then back up at her. "I think I've seen enough pictures for one day." He shook his head amazedly, then glanced at Hoskins again. "You must have better things to do than babysit me, anyway. I'll go find the judge or the gardener. Yeah, we've gotta get a grill set up for the fish. The gardener must have some metal racks or something in that old shed out there. What's his name again?"

"Allen," she said in a placid tone. "Wee Dougal Allen. You'll find him out there in the fields or the gardens somewhere. The maids usually know, since they take him his luncheon." She nodded at Mark, "It's sufficient for one day. Go, find your friend and build your grill. Tell Wee Dougal I said he's to help."

"Yes, ma'am. Thanks for the tour. It was, uh, --"

"Interesting?" Mrs. Hoskins smiled slightly, bowed politely and turned to the back stairs leading down to the kitchen.

ooooo

Mark decided to head for the stream by way of the garden at the east side of the house. One of the maids acted as guide, since she was about to take Wee Dougal's lunch to him. They exited the house by way of French windows to the east terrace and saw a pit being dug next to the drive. A strapping figure paused to swipe at his face with a handkerchief and Mark and Agnes walked over to meet him.

"Hi, bet you can guess I'm one of the Mark McCormicks". He held out a hand to the six-foot six, brawny figure. "You must be Wee Dougal. I see the Scottish have a sense of humor."

"Whut do ye mean, sense o' humor? I'm the sma'est o' ma family." Wee Dougal bridled and scowled.

"Oh, now, Dougal," twittered Agnes. She put down the tray she carried and turned to Mark with a pleading look. "You'll forgive him, I know. Dougal's our highland Scot and you know what _they're _like."

McCormick shook his head. "Uh, no, actually."

"Dougal," she bestowed an admonitory look on the grim-looking gardener, "this is the new Earl."

McCormick's ears perked up and Dougal looked surprised. "He's chosen already? Whut aboot the ithers? We havena e'en seen them yet."

"Well, I mean we think it's very likely." She flustered a bit. "He's got a look of the old Earl, and Mr. Holden seems to think he may be the one we're looking for. I'm sure _I _don't know. Here's your lunch." And fled.

"Seems to _me_," said McCormick, "you've got your hands full with that pit; let me take a turn while you have your lunch." He hesitated suddenly, "It's not haggis leftovers, is it?"

"Nah, nah, 'tis probably bread and cheese. Ye ate the haggis and wore the kilt and made us all proud of ye. That test is done and ye passed wi' honors." He took an enormous bite of bread and followed it with a slice of golden cheese. "Who's yon fella that cam wi' ye? Yer lawyer, foreby?"

"Ah, yeah, he's acting as my lawyer right now, but we work together . . . we're actually friends."

"Friends, is it? _Good _friends, mayhap?" with a wink and a nod.

"Yeah, we're . . . I guess you could say we're best friends—" Mark finally realized the implication being made and his jaw dropped. "No! We're certainly not . . . what you think! He's a judge, superior court retired and a real straight-shooter. And I'm . . . I'm not what you're hinting either. We're_ just friends_, okay?"

"Sure, sure. I merely asked because we already have a couple of fellas in the village and I'd thought ye micht ha' wanted to meet them if ye had . . . certain things in common. How deep must the pit be, d'ye ken?"

A still-ruffled Mark looked down into a pit that was already four feet deep. "I'd say that was fine. Now we have to find a rack to fit into it. You put the fish on the rack over the fire." He looked around at the outbuilding surrounding the former stable area. "You don't have any charcoal to burn, right?"

"Nay, we've something better; we've got coal, on a bed of peat. Give the fush a smoky flavor, and then baste the wee dears with a little of our own whusky. Naething better, in these parts."

McCormick kept his doubts of the plan to himself and decided to focus on one need at a time. "Okay, a rack. You have any kind of metal rack with bars about two inches apart that we could use?"

Wee Dougal finished his small tankard of ale, stood and stretched comprehensively. "We'll have a keek at that old barn," he pointed to a large wooden structure with an ornate weather vane at the top. "Most o' the metal ends up in there."

Two minutes later, Mark and Dougal had managed to remove the hasp from the door by wrenching it off, and had pushed open a door reluctant to move. "When's the last time you were in here?" panted McCormick.

"Not since the May fete of 1976; that was the year Sammy Johnstone used a croquet mallet and wicket to fasten Jennie Spenn to a tree. The games during the festival became a wee bit calmer after that."

"I can imagine. Hold it. Don't move." Mark held out a handto keep Dougal from advancing any further into the barn. "Can you find a flashlight somewhere, quick?"

Without a word, Dougal went back outside and returned in less than thirty seconds with two flashlights. Mark extended a hand to take one and motioned for Dougal to tread carefully after him. Mark gingerly approached a long, low shape under a canvas covering and carefully lifted up one corner to peep under it. "Oh, wow. Oh, wow. I don't believe it." The canvas corner dropped back into place as McCormick backed slowly away. He turned to a puzzled Dougal and asked, "Do you know what's under there?"

"Nay. Never had an idea. Thocht it might've been tractor parts or bits from old cars." He stared at Mark's expression of wonder and disbelief. "So whut is it?"

"It's a Bugatti," Mark whispered reverently. "A Bugatti Brescia, one and a half-liter engine, probably a 1928 model, and looks like it's in pretty decent condition."

"Well," said Dougal gleefully, "let's find oot. I'm meant to be a part-time chauffeur here, ye ken! We'll drag her oot and see what we can do!"

ooooo

Two hours later, the judge and Holden brought back two strings of trout, one with eight and the other with six. "I assure you, Milt, I had the higher total only because of my familiarity with the stream and the fish. Another day, you'll have twice the catch I will."

"Ah, it's not bothering me, Fergus. What _does _bug me a little is those dry flies. I always used live bait when I could and when I couldn't, a piece of bacon or a soggy green bean would do."

"A green bean, Milt? Now that's one fish story I _have _to hear."

"'S'true. You ask McCormick . . . say, where is McCormick anyway? He was supposed to meet us down at the stream." The judge stopped and looked around as if expecting McCormick to suddenly appear.

Betsy appeared at the door to the kitchen to take the trout from Holden. "His Lordship and Wee Dougal were building the fire pit, but then they said they found a bug of some sort in the barn and they've been fooling with it since." She shrugged at the incomprehensible ways of menfolk and went to put the trout on ice.

"Well, the barn is over here; shall we check into their activities?"

Hardcastle slapped Holden gently on the back. "Couldn't keep me away. I've _got_ to know what kind of bug could keep McCormick occupied for this long."

As they approached the door to the barn, sporadic fragments of conversation became audible : "needs a new coil", "one and a half liter was top of the line" "you call it petrol" "Jackie Stewart" "replace the inner tubes", "dipstick has rotted away, get me a screwdriver". Hardcastle and Holden got to the half-open door, and peered in to see what appeared to be a car of some sort, on which Mark and Dougal were spending enormous amounts of energy and swear words. McCormick looked up and saw Hardcastle. "Judge! You're just in time. Run down into the village and get us a quart of petrol, will ya?"

Dougal pushed out from under the car and spoke up. "The station's just the far side of the post office and general store, ye see. They'll put it in a bitty bottle for ye and we'll take it back next time we're in toon. Ma thanks!" and he disappeared under the car again.

Holden and Hardcastle looked at each other. "The pub's in town, too. Right on our way, in fact." The butler winked at the judge. "Remember that bitter I told you was called Dark Lady? They still have a keg or two." Hardcastle grinned and rubbed his hands together. "Sure," he called into the garage. "We'll pick up anything you need. Spark plugs, carburetors, you got a list for us?"

Mark looked up again from under the steering wheel. "Judge, we need inner tubes and a coil that hasn't been manufactured for sixty years. Just the gas will do for now. Oh, and maybe a funnel, small size." Mark's head disappeared under the dashboard.

Hardcastle smiled at his industry and turned to his fishing partner. "Feel like a walk into the village?"

"It's a right pert time for it, Milt. My round, now!" He held up a finger to show he was serious.

"Okay," agreed the judge amenably. "But the second's mine."

"I like a man who knows how to compromise," Holden held his face straight, but the twinkle in his eye gave him away, and the two older men went down the avenue of lime trees in high spirits.

ooooo

When the petrol was delivered, three hours later, the Bugatti had been pushed outside and cleaned up substantially. As Mrs. Hoskins sorted silverware and the kitchen staff readied a wooden picnic table, Mark and Dougal tenderly closed the hood over the engine and Mark reached for the aluminum petrol tin and funnel.

"Thanks, Judge. Now stand back, okay?"

"Why? What's going on?"

"We're gonna try to start her up, but we need everybody to stand way back . . . just in case."

"I don't like the sound of that, kiddo. How 'bout maybe--"

"How about you let the two car experts handle this and you go get the fish cooking?" Mark waved a hand toward the pit, now lined with peat and filled with coal.

"Hmm," muttered the judge, inspecting the pit. "Fergus, you got any ideas about this?"

"One," he replied, "and it never fails. A whisky sauce makes any food taste better."

"Now," Hardcastle rested a hand on his shoulder, "now, you are definitely cookin'."

A sudden small explosion startled everyone. The Bugatti shot past, McCormick at the wheel, Dougal whooping and waving as he followed. Another backfire and the Bugatti turned the corner of the drive and sped out of sight.

"Och, the laddies," said Mrs. Hoskins dispassionately and turned back to setting the table.

ooooo

The trout were nearly ready to be served when McCormick and Dougal reappeared, pushing the Bugatti.

"Hey, soup's on," yelled the judge. "Come and get it before I throw it to the hogs!"

Randolph, who had arrived full of appreciation for the dinner invitation, presented a stack of plates to the judge and threw him a puzzled look. Suddenly, his brow cleared. "Ah, a traditional summons to dinner, one assumes."

"Yup. Hey, thanks." Hardcastle placed a trout on the topmost plate and handed it to Holden, who'd just removed his apron. "Here ya go. Who's next?"

Dougal and Mark joined the group as the last few trout were put under foil to keep warm. "Accelerator stuck," said Mark succinctly. "We'll take another look after we eat."

"Oh, no, you won't." The judge continued to hand out plates of grilled trout. "After dinner, we're getting the grand tour of the distillery shed." He winked at Dougal. "Maybe even get a sample or two."

Wee Dougal took an enormous bite of trout, savored it, swallowed and grinned at him. "Aye, and I'll trade a bottle of the best for anither troot the like of this. I never speired a fush so tasty."

Mrs. Tremaine nodded and smiled at the judge. "Indeed. I believe I'll be asking for the receipt from you."

"Oh, this is okay," McCormick grinned at her, "but the judge's fish-on-a-stick is really what he's famous for."

"Not again, McCormick," Hardcastle groaned.

Mark proceeded to tell the Lost in the Wilderness Story, which Holden followed with A Badger in the Cellar. Randolph volunteered his tale of Hedgehogs in the Punchbowl and Mrs. Hoskins related The Strange Story of the Pony and the Petticoat.

At the conclusion of the meal, plates were piled onto trays and one leftover trout was carefully set aside for the kitchen mouser.

"That's gonna be one happy cat," said the judge patting his stomach contentedly. "Not bad, if I say so myself."

Holden smiled and nodded. "Now, I'll just fetch a few glasses and we'll be off to Dougal's laboratory."

"Ah, hm. First," Mr. Randolph stood and looked around at the small gathering. "May I express my thanks for the delicious meal and the good company. The trout was superb! Also," he lowered his head and gazed at McCormick. "I have a bit of news that I was saving for, hm . . . dessert, so to say."

Mark stared back at him, wide-eyed.

"We've had a communication from our agent in South Africa and it appears that the candidate there has now been eliminated. There was an ancestor named _McCornick_ whose name was misprinted as _McCormick _and the error continued to the present day." He nodded complacently. "There are only two possible heirs now."

McCormick took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then looked at the judge with his brows raised.

"Well, it's a coin flip now, kiddo." Hardcastle smiled a trifle grimly, then pushed himself to his feet. "Let's get the place cleaned up and then we'll find out how to make whisky."

ooooo

By the time Mark entered the kitchen the next morning, Mrs. Tremaine and the judge were deep in an argument about breakfast.

"Now, isn't it my turn to be fixing a meal?" she demanded. "Here's the kedgeree already in the bowl and the kidneys under the flame, so go you both into the parlor and sit yourselves down." She turned from the judge to hide a smile and give a stir to the pot on the burner. "And if there's a word against my porridge from either of you, you'll have salt pork for your lunch. Hark at me now!" She brandished her wooden spoon and they both cowered in mock fear and scurried into the small breakfast room.

While McCormick was playing with a kidney and trying to persuade himself that a man who could force down haggis could eat _anything_, Holden brought in the morning copy of the _London Times _and inquired about his plans for the days.

"It occurred to me, if you please, sir," he said tentatively, "that it might be thought appropriate for you to acquaint yourself with the grounds of the estate and the town itself." He scraped a few crumbs off the tablecloth, straightened the centerpiece, and eyed the remnants of the devilled kidney with strong disapprobation.

The judge looked thoughtful and then nodded. "Makes sense. Let the locals get a look at you, show 'em you're fairly normal."

Mark shrugged. "Okay. It'll give me a chance to look for some kind of inner tubes for the tires." He looked at Holden with mock dismay. "Tell her I dropped it on the floor and it got dirt all over it, would ya? But that I'm sure it would've been really good."

The butler clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head despairingly, then broke into a grin. "Never could stand them myself, sir. Chewy little rogues, aren't they?"

As Hardcastle and McCormick strolled onto the east terrace, Dougal appeared from the garage and waved a rusty metallic spiral.

"This bitty coil might do us, d'ye see?" He presented it to McCormick proudly. "There's a sad pile o' rubbish back in there, but this cam' off a verra antique of a bus. If we furbished it a mite and took great care . . ."

The judge bit back a smile as the two younger men bent their heads over the aged ignition coil. He waited for a moment, then cleared his throat emphatically.

"Oh, was it somewhere else ye were heading?" Dougal looked up suddenly.

"Yeah, how 'bout if you two save this for the afternoon, okay?" Hardcastle plucked at Mark's sleeve. "Come on, you get us out of the grounds and I can find the way to the pub."

"If ye're heading inta the toon, ye must tak' a wee keek at oor kirk. Norman, 'tis, and parson'll be that pleased to tak' ye 'roond it."

McCormick smiled politely. "Yeah, that sounds great. We'll be sure to check out the church." He turned earnest and bent over the coil again. "Now, be careful not to scrape it and if you--"

The judge yanked on his sleeve this time and tugged him into a walk. "It'll still be here when we get back." He waved to Dougal, but kept McCormick moving. "Now, listen up. I want to get serious with you here about some stuff, okay?"

"Doon to the toon, to take a keek at the kirk," murmured Mark as they turned off the drive and onto the lane that led to the village.

"What?"

"I'm practicing my Scottish. Doon to the toon to take a keek at the kir-rk. Gotta get more 'rrr' into it."

The judge looked skyward and shook his head. "Grant me patience," he muttered.

McCormick grinned at him mischievously. "You know he's a fake, don't ya? Dougal, I mean."

"A fake? Whaddaya mean, a fake?" Hardcastle furrowed his brow. "You mean he's not really a gardener?"

"Nah, he's a probably a decent gardener, but his accent's a put-on."

"You're kidding! How do ya know?" The judge lifted his Yankee cap and scratched his head in perplexity. "And why does it he do it then?"

McCormick shook his head, but kept walking. "Wrench slipped yesterday and he said a few, um, _x-rated _words in his real accent before he caught himself."

"And you didn't call him on it?"

"It's probably just a habit from showing off for the tourists." Mark shrugged. "I figure it's none of my business anyway."

"Ah, well, that brings me to what I wanna talk to ya about." Hardcastle swiped at his chin and took a deep breath. "Ya know, it's looking like you might actually be the Earl of this place. Have you been thinking about what that would mean?"

Mark wrinkled his brow and pondered a moment. "Yeah. I've thought about making you curtsy to me, but – hey!" he laughed as the judge shoved him brusquely into a hedge.

"Come on, I'm being serious here," said the judge gruffly. "Or I'm _trying_ to. You're not helping any."

"Yeah, I know." McCormick sobered and resumed his leisurely stride. "Well, Judge, I guess I figured it was such a long shot that it wasn't worth spending a lot of time thinking about. Until now. It still seems kinda unreal, you know. Like it's never gonna happen, so why worry about it."

Hardcastle shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. "Well, seems to me you better _start _thinking about it. Fifty-fifty's pretty good odds."

"Hah. Let me tell you, I've lost a lot of bets on odds better than that. I dunno." Mark stared up at the oak spreading its branches completely across the lane to the village. "Maybe it's superstitious, but I stopped hoping for stuff because it seemed like the more I wanted it, the less of a chance I had to get it." He lowered his gaze and looked at the older man questioningly. "Does that sound _too _crazy?"

"Mmm," the judge rubbed at his nose thoughtfully, "it's understandable, maybe. But I really do think you oughtta spend some time thinking about what it would mean if you're _it_. That's only common sense at this point, right?"

"Yeah, I guess. Hey, is that the town? I mean, the toon?"

"Yep. All forty-three cottages, two pubs and one church."

"Kirk." McCormick drew himself up. "Let's take a wee keek at the kir-rk."

Hardcastle made a growling noise, but kept walking.

ooooo

An hour-long tour of the the small stone church was duly given by the Vicar of Thornecroft, who was an energetic and enthusiastic young man. He duly displayed the "very fine rood screen", pointed out that the transepts and steeple had been added in the 16th century, and took obvious pride in the chancel and the apse.

The judge checked the currency in his pocket as they left and dropped two pound notes into the Poor Box as McCormick thanked Vicar Thomas for his time. Then, hearing an odd noise from the small park in front of "The Iron Duke", they decided it was only sensible to investigate and, coincidentally, favor the pub with a small show of patronage.

The noise was determined to be the drones of a bagpipe band preparing for rehearsal. There were several townspeople relaxing on benches outside the pub, waiting to enjoy the entertainment. A wizened, nearly toothless old fellow waved the two of them to the bench next to him and then called to the innkeeper for a round on him.

"MacIntosh, I be," he nodded at them. "What'll you take?"

They each took a half-pint of the local bitter and settled in to listen to the pipes. Mr. MacIntosh informed them of titles and, occasionally, made a reference to the meaning of the piece – 'Maggie Cameron', 'The Geese in the Bog', 'The Crooked Bawbee' were played consecutively, then the pipers took a break for a few swigs of beer.

Mark bought another round of half-pints for himself, Hardcastle and Mr. MacIntosh and one of the younger pipers winked at him and tootled a few phrases of "California Dreamin'." This brought several chuckles from the crowd and a smattering of applause, and everyone grinned and raised their glasses to McCormick, who grinned and waved his own glass back at them.

The publican, Mr. Harman, brought out two plates with cheese, bread and pickled onions and presented them. "No, I called Mrs. Tremaine and she said to feed you as you were late getting back for lunch."

The pipers recommenced their practice with a few reels and hornpipes, then broke for lunch themselves, at which point Mark felt it imperative to get back to Dougal and the Bugatti. Hardcastle and MacIntosh decided to finish their reminiscences of the London Blitz while indulging in a good-natured darts competition.

ooooo

_Honestly, he really is still the biggest donkey in America_. McCormick grinned wryly and shook his head. He noticed a rabbit scuttering away in the meadow grass lining the lane and stopped to watch it for a moment. It disappeared, and he picked up his stroll again. _Does he actually think I might __**stay **__here? Be an earl and do all kinds of earl stuff? _Mark's grin shaded away to a smile of affection. _Oh, well. It does him good to worry a little. Keeps his blood pressure up. Donkey!_

He rounded the corner and started up the drive, then saw Wee Dougal straighten up from something on the front lawn.

"Och, so ye're back!" Dougal shouted. "Come ye here, then, and see what we've foond."

McCormick joined him and stared inquiringly at the wooden mallets and metal wickets. "Croquet?"

"Aye, croquet." Dougal resumed pounding the wickets into the ground. "We thocht we'd gie the twa of ye a right traditional evening." He stretched a kink out of his back and waved toward the manor house. "Mrs. Tremaine's got a saddle of good mutton roasting for after the croquet, then there'll be a grand fire in the library and a wee bottle of something special for ye." He smiled hopefully at Mark. "What say ye to that? Soond good ta ye?"

"Sounds great, but let me help you with those." Mark picked up a wicket. "If we're gonna play croquet when the judge gets back, we'd better get started on that coil."

"Hoots," chortled Dougal. "The Bug, as the maids call it. Nah, nah, it goes there."

ooooo

The saddle of mutton (roasted to a turn with potatoes, carrots and onions), beetroot salad and homemade sherry trifle was accompanied by a fine old burgundy Holden had unearthed in the wine cellar.

"This stuff's over thirty years old," said a marvelling Hardcastle, trying to get one more drop from his glass. "You can't get this kinda wine in the States without mortgaging the farm."

"If you please, gentlemen," a beaming Holden bowed graciously, "Mrs. Hoskins has made up an admirable fire for you in the library and I have placed the brandy at a sufficient distance to warm it without overheating it."

McCormick sighed contentedly. "A nice comfy chair sounds pretty good right now. Judge, you wanna just lick the glass and be done with it? Come on. A good murder mystery and a fire, maybe one _small _glass of that brandy. I could get used to this."

On their way through the hall to the library, the telephone rang and Holden answered it. "Blackthorne Manor . . . Yes . . . I see . . . Just as we'd thought. Thank you so much for letting me know. We'll keep you informed."

He turned to usher the judge and Mark into the library. "Just Mr. Harman at the public house wanting to know if you'd enjoyed the afternoon. May I recommend that chair, Mr. Hardcastle? Allow me to bring you a snifter, sir."

"You know," the judge settled into the armchair with a smile, "I kinda enjoy that butler stuff. You do it real well, Fergus."

"My thanks, sir," said Holden with a straight face, but a decided twinkle in his eye. "And you, sir?" He turned to McCormick, stretched out of the sofa with a Rex Stout book already in his hands. "A small glass, I believe you said."

Mark nodded. "I could _definitely_ get used to this."

Hardcastle shot him a glance, frowned, then took a sip of his brandy. His eyebrows went up and he sniffed at the brandy appreciatively, then looked across the room at McCormick. "So," he said casually," you think any more about what we were talking about?"

"Oh, some." McCormick waved a languid hand without lifting his eyes from the page. "Some."

The judge made the noise commonly written as 'hmmph' and went back to his brandy.

"Will there be anything else tonight?" At their headshakes, Holden trod over to the door, turned and bowed again. "Then may I wish you a pleasant evening, gentlemen?" He pulled the double doors nearly closed, then added, "You certainly ought to sleep well!"

ooooo

"What?!" said the judge irritably, then realized he'd been asleep. _Huh. Could've sworn I heard somebody . . . what time is it?_ He turned to the bedside table and saw that it was shortly after one a.m. _Damn. Must've been a dream. Why is it so cold in here?_

Sitting up, he noticed his coverlet had somehow fallen onto the floor at the foot of the bed. Swearing under his breath, he climbed out and hauled it back up and spread it haphazardly over the bed. A snick from the door to his room startled him and he swore again. He walked over to the door and inspected the latch. _Nothing wrong with it. Must not've been completely shut. Or else _. . .

He opened the door and looked into the hallway. "McCormick?" he whispered. "You trying to be funny?" There was no response, but he noticed a light downstairs at the end of the hall. _At this hour? Oh, well. Maybe a glass of milk if somebody's still up._

Hardcastle grabbed up the burgundy and gold bathrobe he'd gotten for Christmas and stepped quietly down the hall to the stairs. _Sounds like they're having a regular henfest down there. I'll chase 'em all to bed_, he thought virtuously.

As he pushed open the swinging door to the butler's pantry, he heard Holden's voice clearly.

"Mr. MacIntosh speaks for the townspeople and they share the Vicar's opinion. And Mr. Harman's assessment is the same. The bloodline might not be there, but the other qualifications suit him for the position. They agree, however, that the final decision rests with us. Who'd like to speak?"

The judge caught himself up as he reached for the kitchen door and leaned his head nearer the jamb to hear better.

"He's a nice young man," said Mrs. Hoskins. "He showed commendable interest in the history of the house and and displayed a certain sensibility at the story of the unfortunate Cassandra. His only lack might be a degree of dignity which may be added as he grows older."

Mrs. Tremaine added her voice. "He's passed every test. The kilt, the haggis, the pipes. And witness the way he's helping Dougal with his chores and that car."

"He's got an open personality," that was Randolph, "and a great deal of native intelligence. He demonstrates a nice understanding of human nature and a certain ah, _shrewdness _let us call it, which could be very useful in a man of responsibilities."

"But it's us who'll be dealing with him. We must be agreed and with no hint of doubt." Holden paused, then continued. "Is he the man we want for earl?"

"This is mere chat," said a voice which, after a moment of confusion, Hardcastle recognized as Wee Dougal's. "We're all decided and there's scant need for more discussion. What we should be deciding is if we'll ever tell him the truth. I'm not so certain he'd take it ill if he learned we'd contrived the whole inheritance scheme; he has a fine sense of humor." Dougal chuckled. "And a fine sense of honor. I've told you how I 'blew my cover'. He's said no word and that shows a fine spirit. Enough of talk. We've all been taken with him since he first arrived. He'll make a fine earl and my vote is 'aye'."

"Very well, then a vote it is," said Holden. "Are you all agreed?"

A chorus of 'ayes', and the judge stealthily began a retreat from the door. A noise of chairs being moved across the kitchen floor faded as he reached the foot of the stairs. _Poor kid. I don't know what kind of scam this is, but he's going to be awfully disappointed. _Hardcastle tiptoed past the door to the Earl's suite and entered his own room, quietly closing the door. _Ah well, let him have one more night of being an heir. _

ooooo

McCormick was stirring pancake batter by the time the judge made it downstairs the next morning. Mrs. Tremaine had bacon sizzling under the broiler and a pot of coffee ready to pour.

"Well, good morning, sleepyhead," Mark said ironically.

Hardcastle grunted a response and took the coffee cup held out by the cook.

"Breakfast in ten minutes," she smiled. "Oh, and Mr. Randolph will be by around ten this morning, if that's convenient. He said he'd like a word with you both."

"I'll bet," muttered the judge and sipped more coffee.

"Sure, that's okay," replied Mark, spooning batter onto the griddle. "Judge, you want to take a walk after breakfast? I could show you the coppice." He set down the batter bowl and turned to face the judge. "Do you _know _what a coppice _is_?"

"Yeah, I know what a coppice is. I'd love to see a coppice. We definitely need to take a walk and look at a coppice, okay?" Hardcastle held out his cup. "Is there any more coffee?"

ooooo

"Nice coppice. Very nice. Don't know when I've seen a better one." The judge cocked his head and considered. "A Best Coppice Award winner for sure."

"Okay, what's wrong?" McCormick turned to face him.

"Wrong? What makes you think something's wrong?" said Hardcastle innocently.

Mark looked at him pityingly. "I _know _you, remember? Oh," he said abruptly. "Are you worried about me being the heir and deciding to stay here? Look, Judge, I know I said I'd think about it, but--"

"I need to talk to you about that." Hardcastle interrupted. "I found something out last night that you don't know about. Not that _I _know _exactly _what's going on."

"Hold it," said Mark. "First things first. You know," he squinted at the judge, "you really should've known better than to even ask me something like that. I mean, how could you think I'd just pack up everything and move over here to be some kinda royalty? Oh, sure, I'd be rich and probably famous and have everything I ever wanted. Sure, it'd be a life of luxury with servants running around granting my every whim. And there'd be gorgeous women casting themselves at my feet, begging for my attention. And I'd be invited to brunch with the Queen and have my picture in 'People Magazine' as one of the world's most eligible bachelors and--"

"I swear, you could talk the hind leg off a donkey!" shouted the judge.

"_You_ should know," said Mark emphatically.

There was a silence that lasted nearly a minute, then the judge said with a sigh, "Okay, yeah. You're probably right."

McCormick sniffed.

"Okay! I shoulda known better, all right?" Hardcastle swiped at his chin brusquely. "But it looked to me like a temptation that maybe you could give into." He wrinkled his brows in thought. "Hell, _I _might've given in to it if it'd been me."

"Nah, you'd've enjoyed it for a few days, then gone home." Mark grinned at him. "Which is what I'm going to do. Now, are you through looking at the coppice?"

"Oh, yeah, but see . . . there's something else." Hardcastle fidgeted and turned to walk back towards the house. "I, ah, woke up last night. Musta kicked off the covers and my door wasn't completely latched and I kinda looked out and saw a light downstairs."

McCormick frowned at him. "Gee, Judge, that _is _important. I'm glad we had this little talk. Now, if we can find you a nice little nightlight, maybe one shaped like a cowboy hat or something--"

"Will you, for _cryin_' out loud, let me _finish_?"

Mark hmmp'ed, straightened his face and kept walking.

Hardcastle closed his eyes tightly and sighed. "So, I went downstairs and I overheard everybody talking in the kitchen about you. Okay? And even Randolph was there and they were all saying how it was up to _them _to pick the new Earl and they all decided you would be a good one – they musta gotten into that brandy at some point, if ya ask me – and that must be what Randolph's coming over here about this morning." He stopped walking and waited until Mark had turned to face him. "You get it, right? There _is _no inheritance investigation. They're running some kind of scam, there probably never were any other candidates, they want you to be the Earl for some kinda underhanded reason like maybe they've embezzled all the money from the estate or something. Are ya with me?"

"Not really. Let me think a minute." McCormick puckered his brow. "Why would they want _me_? I mean, why pick on me in the first place?"

"I dunno." The judge began walking again and McCormick followed. "Maybe they wanted somebody without a wife and kids or who'd never been to Scotland or maybe they just saw your name in a phone book. The point is, you're not even in the running to be the Earl." Hardcastle scratched at an ear and cleared his throat loudly. "And, um, I'm . . . sorry about that, 'cause I know you were getting a kick out of it."

"Well." Mark hunched his shoulders, then grinned. "Yeah, but look at it this way. I wasn't gonna take the job anyway, so we got a free vacation and a good story to tell."

"Yeah, that's true. And I got a picture of you in a kilt."

"Hah!" said McCormick. "Not if I find where you hid your camera."

ooooo

Randolph's car was already at the foot of the front steps when they got back to the manor house. Mrs. Hoskins met them at the front door and said evenly, "You're back in good time. We're all assembled in the library, if you please to follow me."

The judge motioned to Mark to hang back for a moment. "I forgot to tell you she said you weren't dignified enough," he whispered.

McCormick promptly made a face at him, then strode in an exaggerated, stately manner after the housekeeper, one hand elegantly resting on air.

"His Lordship," Mrs. Hoskins announced as she threw open the library doors.

"The jig is up," Mark announced as he followed her in.

Holden and Randolph broke off the conversation they'd been having by the fireplace, and Randolph came forward hesitantly, hand outstretched, saying, "My Lord? I, er, have just been informed--"

Mark shook his head. "Not gonna work. The judge eavesdropped on you in the kitchen last night and we know you've been running a scam." He looked at the small group of people sternly. "Okay. Who wants to explain?"

"Oh, dear." Mrs. Tremaine dropped onto the sofa and held a hand to her forehead. "We meant it for the best," she pleaded. "Truly!"

"Yeah, well, I think we need to hear the reasons behind all this lordship stuff before we decide that," said the judge noncommittally.

The entire group looked at Mr. Randolph, who steeled himself, stood up straight, and took a deep breath. "We had no choice. There was no heir named, and we needed an earl."

Dougal smiled wryly. "We needed a particular earl. Tell him the truth, Jamie."

"Yes, well," the law clerk adjusted his tie fractionally, "we needed a _rich _earl. You see, the late Earl died in debt, _deeply_ in debt, and we desperately needed an heir who could, and would, be willing to pay off the debts to assume the title. We did, in truth, hire a firm of very reputable investigators to find the likely heir, but when they found you, sir . . . we rather stopped looking."

"It was the address," explained Holden. "You obviously live in a wealthy neighborhood, and add to that the car that you drive is one of a kind."

"Very impressive," murmured Dougal.

"And Mr. Hardcastle himself explained that you have no need of employment." Holden cleared his throat meekly. "You were the only Mark McCormick we found who fit all the qualifications. We had to be very sure that you were acceptable as earl as well as being able to, ah, afford it, so to speak. I'm very sorry, indeed, sir, if we've offended you." He looked at Mark with sorrow etched on his face and hung his head.

McCormick tried but couldn't hold back the laughter any longer. "You . . . you thought _I _was . . . oh, no. No, no, no." He flapped a hand feebly at the judge, who was grinning broadly.

"Ah, ya see, there was a little misunderstanding here, I think," he said cheerfully. "It's really _my _house, and somebody _gave_ him the car, and he actually . . . well, what he does is--"

"Sweep the driveway, clean the pool, trim the hedges," Mark mopped at his eyes and took a deep breath. "Oh, boy, did you get the wrong guy!"

"But," Mrs. Hoskins looked around at her fellow-conspirators, then back at Mark, "they were the very best investigators. Are you sure you're not . . . that is, I beg your pardon, but can there be no mistake?"

"'Fraid not," he said grinning ruefully. "But maybe we can help out anyway. The judge here knows a lot of people and maybe we can figure out how to get the debts cleared away. How much did the old Earl owe?"

Dougal, stood, stretched and laughed himself. "Over a hundred thousand pounds," he said, smiling. "It seems our race is run."

Hardcastle whistled soundlessly. "I may know a lot of folks, but that's--"

"No problem," said McCormick cheerfully. "We just sell the Bugatti."

"Oh, come on." The judge was clearly dubious. "It may be a museum piece, but it can't be worth that much."

"That's exactly what it is, though. A museum piece and I know of at least three people right now who'd pay that much for it." Mark spread his hands in the air. "We sell the Bugatti, and you can give the place to whoever the real heir turns out to be."

Hardcastle winced and shook his head at the suddenly hopeful faces confronting him. "It ain't that easy, though. If you're not the heir, you have no right to sell any property appertaining to the estate. Right, Mr. Randolph?"

Randolph sighed lugubriously. "That is, unfortunately, true."

At that moment, a portly, rubicund gentleman bustled into the room, speaking as he came. "Forgive the intrusion; no answer, so I took the liberty of admitting myself. Oh, excellent," he said, looking at the assembly. "I see you're all ready for the announcement. Perhaps, Randolph, if you'd be so good as to introduce me. Skelton, my dear sir," he turned to Mark and continued without a pause, "Roger Skelton, attorney for the late Earl and in future . . . well, who knows, eh? Perhaps . . . but I'm running ahead of myself. Randolph, don't be backward in making me known to our 'candidate'." He raised his eyebrows and smiled waggishly. "_You _must be Mark McCormick, and I know this will be a day you'll long remember; indeed, it is a gala day for you."

McCormick nudged Hardcastle with an elbow and murmured the old Groucho line, "And a gal a day is enough for me."

The judge smothered a smile and extended a hand to the voluble attorney. "Milt Hardcastle, Mr. Skelton. McCormick's legal representative."

"A pleasure, my dear sir, an absolute joy, I do assure you. But," Skelton beamed at Mark, "are you prepared to learn your fate? I'm sure you are! This is a moment I have long awaited, nay, even, I may say anticipated, a moment--"

"Mr. Skelton," interrupted Randolph desperately. "We've just been explaining about the investigation--"

"Yes, yes," waved Skelton imperatively. "I'm certain you have, but it falls to me, good people," he spread his arms to embrace all those in the room, "to announce the ultimate findings of our investigators. The final cable arrived just minutes ago and I hastened, I have sped with all dispatch, to acquaint your good self," he bowed before Mark, "My Lord, with the incontrovertible proof that you are indeed the rightful heir to the estate of Blackthorne Manor and hereditary title of Earl of Blackthorne. My sincerest and most hopeful congratulations, My Lord."

"There you go," said Mark to the incredulous staff. "_Now_ we can sell the Bugatti."

ooooo

"It's a nice place to visit," said Mark, taking a last look at the ivy-covered facade of Blackthorne Manor. He smiled slyly at the judge. "But I wouldn't want to live here."

"Oof," was the response. "Hey, give me a hand with this, willya?"

McCormick's smile changed to one of resignation. "You do know there's a weight restriction on the flight, don't you?"

"Come on," said Hardcastle exasperatedly. "We gotta get going."

"What have you got in here, anyway, bricks?" puffed McCormick as he pushed the judge's suitcase into the trunk of the car. "You could've just bought a few postcards to remember the place by. You didn't have to take pieces of it home with you."

Hardcastle smirked at him. "I'll tell ya what I got in there. A _kilt_, that's what. Hah!"

"Well, hah to you, too," Mark grinned at him. "I gave Holden that purple parrot shirt! Now tell me how you're going to get those bottles of scotch through customs."

"Ah, I'll think of something." The judge shrugged nonchalantly.

"Right, the legal stuff is your area. I just drive the car." McCormick's gaze passed over the gardens, the expansive lawn, the ancient oaks lining the drive. "You sure that Skelton guy's got all the paperwork filed okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. He's a blabbermouth, but he knows his stuff." Hardcastle slammed the trunk shut and then leaned on it to make sure it had latched. "He's a good lawyer. Ya know," he looked at the younger man still drinking in the landscape, "that was a real decent idea of yours. Making Randolph your estate agent."

"Well," Mark shrugged, "he really cares about the place and he certainly knows the financial angles. He's already got all kinds of plans," he opened the door of the rental car and snorted, "and you know what he told me this morning? He thinks we might even make a little profit this year if we start charging for Public Days."

"You gonna make enough profit to pay for two flights home if we miss this one?" Hardcastle opened the door on his side of the car.

"Nah, I told him to just give everybody a Christmas bonus if that happens." McCormick slid under the steering wheel and began trying to locate the seat belt. Suddenly he swung around to face the judge. "Hey! Did you know there's a ghost here? Nobody told me 'til this morning and now it's too late to look for her 'til we come back next summer."

"Her?" asked the judge curiously, fastening his own seat belt.

"Yeah, it's a woman and when she appears or manifests or whatever ghosts do, there's a cold draft. She can pull the covers off beds, and open doors, too, and they think she even spoke once, but nobody knows what she said." McCormick turned the key in the ignition. "Weird, huh? Wish I'd known I had a chance to meet a real ghost, don't you?"

"Hmm," said the judge thoughtfully. "I wonder."

"What?" said Mark.

"Ah, nothing," responded the judge, craning his neck to cast a misleading glance back at the trunk. "Just thinking about spirits."

finis

(or is it?)


End file.
